1. 'Surfing' through the summer grass in the meadows at the top of Colley Hill, with the wind streaming through his floppy ears, and the grass looking like gentle breakers on a sandy shore, and all life's joys being condensed in a moment of vivacity and sunshine (3.3.11)
2. A little friend who went everywhere with us and was part of all that we did;
3. And that friend lent a touch of gold and silver to almost eight early years of my retirement and was a major influence, in retrospect, on the first decade of that (arguably the most important) period of my life;
4. Something, a life, that quintessence of dust, that gave meaning and value and joy jn our lives, and what more can life offer?
5. I'm so glad that on that last morning, as I carried him to the car that would take us to the vets, a route on which he had always trembled, whether we were going there of not, that as we went through our house gates for the last time, where, I believe he'd been so happy, I held him up, looking down the garden one last time, and said: 'Oh Fred, say goodbye to the garden you loved. Where you played so happily these long years. We loved you so much. We loved you so much'.
6. All those wonderful audio books and podcasts that I would never have made time for but for my daily walks with dear little Fred;
7. He went everywhere with us:
a) quite often to GM in our GM days, and he would be in his little cage quite peacefully, and then we would go 'round the block' with Fred on the lead and searching all the gutters and corners for discarded chips and burgers;
b) he would do much the same in London; he loved all London streets for this precise reason;
c) he loved Regents Park (the south end) which we would reach on our walks from the flat in Chitty Street - though only part of the park was permitted to dogs;
d) once (in a lifetime) in the Trafalgar Square region he chanced to get his teeth into a whole discarded burger and decided (of course) that he was never going to give this up. This was clear from the way he re-arranged it in his mouth by numerous very rapid and adroit adjustment movements. So there he was, being carried by me in the usual way (for crossing London streets at busy times), looking pleased as Punch, with a great long burger drooping from his mouth and looking like a caricature of Churchill with a cigar, and causing great amusement to the onlooking policewoman.
8. In London Fred cast a moving ray of sunshine. Everywhere he went people's faces would break into smiles at seeing his friendly little doggy face and his twinkling gait of such miraculous lightness.
9. The Isle of Wight holiday in February 2004 and that lovely shot of Fred on board the ferry. We didn't know then just how long we would have him with us, and probably just lived in the present with him;
10. In the very early days Ruth studied, characteristically, the books on looking after 'rescued' dogs, and, looking back, it was very much well that she did so, as we were total novices on the significance of psychology in such dogs lives. And it helped us to understand little Fred's early escapades;
11. In his latter years Fred seemed so settled and relaxed, and, on reflection, it was so suitable that Heather came here to look after him for two of those six weeks we were away in NZ in Sept/Oct/Nov 2010, as she was just so understanding and loving and friendly towards him at all times, and that was so important that our little friend did not feel deserted again, at this (we now know) so late stage in his little life;
12. At the end, Fred was so delicate that I hardly dared to push my fingers under him as he lay in his basket, to pick him up. It seemed as if I might injure him. And although he was fine, even then, once picked up, he felt immensely flexible and in need of a very big hand under him to spread the uplift.
13. What a contrast to the chunky little chap we gave a home to on 1st June 2003, who had a bit of (what the vet called) a 'fatty lump' on one flank, which would be fine so long as it didn't get bigger. It didn't. Though it was a long time before it decreased much.
14. The story was, when we took Fred on, that his owners (in Bedlington itself Ruth recalls) had both died and he, being much in need of a good home, of course, had been looked after temporarily by Paula's friend Helen, who could always be relied-upon to do so. And first he was taken on by Graham and Paula who were looking for a second Bedlington to join Zeke. But Fred didn't get on with the many cats at their home at Barlow. And as Paula said, a weekend or two ago, she could see that he really meant it. So, when we called on the way back from Kenmore, all unsuspecting, we were greeted by Fred. One look and we were smitten. And it's been much the same ever since. Though Ruth remembers that we debated it all the way home (without Fred - who was then thought to have been called 'Jed' or something else ending in '-ed'). We knew it was a big decision. And it was. Life-changing really. But we thought it would be life-expanding, and in important ways it was. All about caring for a living thing - a part of the animal kingdom. And a part that needed us (or someone).
15. And his name? The idea for Fred was mine. It needed to be like 'Jed', we thought. And he needed a home. He had lost his home through no fault of his own. My dad had lost his home twelve years earlier in similarly sad circumstances, and it seemed so suitable to remember dad in this joyful way and simultaneously offsetting a small piece of the world's unhappiness by giving a home to this little character. And so we decided to do it. And next weekend we picked him up from Graham at the A1/M62 intersection services. Poor Fred, looking back, he must have been so nervous. No idea what was happening to him. And it takes a long time to offset all that.
16. But offset it we did. Eventually. Possibly he was OK by Graham and Paula's wedding in June 2004. But then the NZ wedding in November 2004 got him all wrong again. Jane Phillips couldn't manage him and he ended up at the kennels by the time we got back in November 2004. So, then he had two clear years, 2005 and 2006, of good health and happiness, before his copper toxicosis struck in February 2007.
17. Things we used to do for Fred: (I) (since 2007) four little meals a day (biscuits and tjnned diet stuff) of course, and four fresh bowls of water; (ii) two walks, originally both being quite long, but getting shorter over the years and the morning one becoming, for a year or more, just 'round the block' ie round the church and the green; (iii) (latterly) he would not always want to go out first thing in the morning, so, after our tea & juice in bed we would listen out for Fred barking to go out, while we were showering, and sometimes would go down in a dressing gown and slippers while still covered in shower gel!
18. (Mon 7.3.11 at 11.08 am): Charlotte at vets just phoned to say Fred's ashes are there. How sad. And yet...... We are going to scatter them where he loved to wander, down the garden. His own garden for all those years. He made it his own. He would chase the cats and squirrels in his early years, and even latterly would go out barking furiously if he thought his territory was being invaded;
19. How much I treasure these memories and am glad to think of the time and money we devoted to Fred's little life, whereas in contrast the relatively enormous amounts of time and money given equally wholeheartedly to GM have been so ill-invested. A veritable Dorothea and Casaubon situation. But Fred taught me about love and GM taught me about naivety (my own);
20. Tuesday 8.3.11: collected Fred's ashes from Rutland Vets this afternoon and delivered our 'thank you' card, which I'd worked at all day yesterday. The girls said the card would be just right for the staffroom. Likewise took a special card to Corriebran Kennels. Was glad it was the girl there whom he'd known for years and not a new one. She said Fred was always a 'sweetie', which I'm sure he was. Then called at the Rutland Water Nurseries for some February Gold narcissus to plant where we're going to scatter his ashes.
21. (12.3.11): Almost ready to bury his ashes. So sad. Yet a celebration of all that joy that he brought into our lives. Thinking of saying: 'Little Fred, you brought joy into our lives for all those eight years. We loved you so much. We miss you so much. We will never forget you. Goodbye my dearest little Fred."
22. Kenmore memories: so many walks beside the Tay with little Fred. And walks up Drummond Hill in the early years. Morning walks before breakfast. Deep among the lush green foliage of the Tayside hills. Thinking. Planning. So glad to be out with him. Near to nature. Seeing where my life was going. In those early days of retirement. Not knowing then about the coming loss of GM. But Fred was always there. That little loving friend.
23. (16.3.11) We laid Fred to rest today. Just his ashes of course. Had debated long exactly where it should be. Eventually it was easily decided. Photos show the spot. Very suitable. Just where he used to potter by over the stepping stones, on his way back to the kitchen from the big pond and the wooded area generally. Beside the Gingko tree. Not far from his last big adventure when he fell in the pond, and I had photos of him looking bedraggled and of the 'trail' in the duckweed where he'd 'swum' to the shore. Poor little Fred. How hard must have been in all that clinging pond-weed.
Anyway, I dug as deep as I could with a shovel, but without making a massive job of it by getting down in there with a pickaxe it was impossible to go any deeper, and in truth it was only slightly deeper than one might go with a hole for planting a tree - so there's some risk he might be disturbed one day. But not for a long time, and not of course until we've gone from here.
24. As I laid his little casket there, I whispered: little Fred, dear little Fred, you gave us joy for nearly eight years of our lives, and we loved you dearly. We miss you terribly and are here to say our last goodbye. So goodbye dear dear Fred. We shall never never forget you. And so it was time to put the earth back and then Ruth planted the Alchemilla Mollis and the three tete a tete narcissus around it. And she shed a few tears too. All lovely for him. Our own dear Fred. Just right in the end. Just what I would want: green and beautiful nature to remember me by. And so we do.
25. Fred is now an icon for me: something lovely to remember. That went so well. For the whole of, or almost, of the first big chunk, almost a decade, of my retirement. When other things became meaningless, like GM, little Fred remained our loving little friend. Always there. Trusting always. To the end. The very end. And so dignified. So trustingly ready to look the other way and not make a fuss. As he always did at the vet, when it hurt. That's why I held his dear little head in both hands at the very last, and whispered to him again and again that I loved him. Silly, no doubt. But me. And Fred. And that wonderful thing called life that all three of us shared with him, for all those years. How I miss him. No longer there in his basket in the kitchen, with his little chin resting on the edge of the basket. Always there. Always our Fred. I should have realised more often that it was a gift that would shortly come to an end. I little thought that in NZ during those six weeks, now nearly six months ago.
26. The chink of his collar-tag on his water bowl as he drank;
27. His amazingly 'slurpy' water-drinking;
28. Fred on our Isle of Wight holiday in.....2004 (was it?)
29. Fred wherever we went ;
30. All the walks I ever did with him - especially the regular ones, and the long ones that used to be routine in the early days. The Seaton walk now seems incredibly long compared with the latter days, and yet we must have done it many many tens of times. And I remember it at harvesting times and indeed at spraying times when we would sometimes have to run to keep well-clear of the clouds of spray;
31. I treasure the memory of those last days/weeks of Fred's time with us when I worked down here on my Mac (working on the KB complaint) in the kitchen, so as to be with him in case of need, and I played quite a lot during the last evening or two, the CD that Gerry Schofield sent to me after the Gathering on 20th February, by Larry Adler on Gershwin songs including "Summertime" and "Do what you do", which have thus become inextricably connected with those times of sad farewell to a beloved friend.
32. His little heart beating so clearly against the palm of my right hand as I lifted him, thousands of times, to take him somewhere - and he would always relax when he felt my hand there as if he knew he would be all right; and this was particularly so in latter days when he couldn't see but judged everything by feel and smell - so trusting;
33. Yesterday was 24.3.11. One month on. We remembered at 9.30 am. And I walked towards Thorpe, as a month ago. It seems so long. And a yawning gap left. Never to see our little friend again seems so .....impossible. He was always there. That little self-possessed chap, who was always popping out of his basket in the kitchen to have a sniff round. Always there. A little friend. And then suddenly not.
34. We put much time and I suppose some cost into looking after our little friend as well as we could. And now, looking back after nearly eight years, it all seems to have been so worthwhile.
35. (Even GM, viewed in that way, was worthwhile in the sense of needing to do it in order to move on).
36. Fred's way of saying I'm your friend by taking my fingers in his mouth and gently not biting them; this was often done when we were playing the 'back-rocking' game;
37. A related friendly gesture was when I very gently placed Fred on the ground after carrying him, say, from the kitchen to the drive, and as he felt the ground gently supporting him he would turn his head and touch my arm with his nose as if to say 'thank-you';
38. Those last few evenings with little Fred, when I was working on my Mac in the kitchen and knowing, I suppose, that my time with my little friend was all coming to an end - but I treasure those times now;
39. (1.4.11): Now I've found the 'Isle of Wight ferry' picture of Fred I treasure that too. He's so bright-eyed and alert....and just so 'Fred';
40. The way he stretched out, on his back, in his basket - and as my music played in the kitchen (especially in 'Do what you do'), he would wriggle and stretch to a new even more comfortable position, as if to say: 'that's nice!';
41.(Sat.9.4.11): first 'post-Fred' outing of the sort which we voluntarily gave up in 2003 - to Northampton Derngate and The Vineyard. And although it was a great success, it still reminds me of our little friend who is gone, and all that he meant to us - whereas in many a comparable situation one simply gives thanks for the 'freedom';
42. Phases in Fred's life:
a) day 1 in Lyddington: walk to the 'Turnpike' via Colley hill and Fred completely refuses to walk on the grass and will will will walk in the road on the Tarmac - we somewhat fall out about this; I now know that he never really did walk on the grass up there, and it didn't really matter;
b) first few months in which we were learning: Ruth reading up about rescue dogs and warning about the need for 'psychology' in their handling, and me thinking: 'well yes....but.....'; I now know it does matter; it makes all the difference in the world. A well-adjusted dog will happily stay in kennels, but dear little Fred never did get to that happy state - though he seemed completely happy here;
c) first few years (2003 to February 2007): always a gallop back along Main Street for Fred to wallop down his supper, which would be waiting for him. I didn't know then that that would be only a phase while Fred was youngish and well - not having had dogs before;
d) ditto galloping up Colley Hill with him - well, jogging up. Only for a while. All came to an end in due course with one or other of his health scares. No doubt intended to resume, but somehow didn't;
d) health phases: (1) 2003 to 2007 basically well and normal food; (2) 2007 to 2011: totally special food with increasing amounts and complexity of tablets to cope with copper toxicosis and liver problems;
e) The final health phase, of perhaps a week or two, at the very end of his life, was the culmination of those copper toxicosis and liver problems when, finally, they became unmanageable and poor little Fred's delicate chemical balance that we'd maintained for about four years, could not be sustained and we realised we'd got to that terrible moment that had been approaching the horizon for ages;
43. (14.4.11): words from pet bereavement CD from Jane Mackay: "...go free now dear little one to where your kind go; that you were deeply loved is just for you to know";
44. April 24th 2011, and it's two months dear dear little Fred since we lost you. Spring's blossom-height is already gone in a heat wave and all these things which you always shared with us, are ours alone, and no longer part of the joy of something we all knew. You lived through all that cold weather last winter - and I little thought it was your last. Likewise at Kenmore last Spring. We always were with you and shared it with you. And now that joy is gone - except in memory;
45. Shaving and showering time in the morning in Fred's latter days were part of a progressively adapting ritual taking account of his increasing needs, whereby he often wasn't 'up' and pottering about in the kitchen (to which he had to be confined), so I would be shaving and showering in the loft bathroom with the door open and the radio not on, listening for his single short sharp bark to say 'I'm ready to go out', and would rush down in dressing gown only, often totally wet from the shower, but happy to see to our little friend's increasing needs;
46. A year or so ago. Fred was very deaf. The dog at the bottom of the village where Gordon & Sheila used to live would wait for Fred and suddenly let out a deafening torrent of barking. Generally Fred showed total indifference to this abuse by completely ignoring it. But one day when it was particularly noisy and unpleasant, Fred showed his view of the matter by squatting down and doing a poo directly towards the tyrannical dog, which put a spoke in it's wheel and no mistake!
47. (16.5.11, at Kenmore): Everywhere I go, and especially up here and travelling on the A1 and elsewhere, I remember with joy having been here before with little Fred. Wherever we stop on a motorway it is the same. Always there are the places we used to take him - to stretch his legs and 'cock-a-leggie';
48. (At cottage 33 at Kenmore, 17.5.11): I remember, now that I'm here, the details of being here with little Fred this time last year. And our late-night last wee outings. Not always easy. He had a will and a mind of his own. And how well I remember now, having to keep him in his little cage all the time. Not easy at all. And of courseI had no idea at all that that would be his last time at Kenmore. Never entered my head, I believe. Not least because we probably still,then, expected to be coming in September as usual.
49. In fact, what happened was that Helen's Caesarean birth was set for 29th September and we left for NZ on the 25th so that was that for our Autumn Kenmore trip, Heather and Michael came here instead, and then Heather came down to Lyddington to look after Fred for a fortnight.
50. Last year Lyddington Fete did not clash with Kenmore and we entered Fred in the 'Veteran' class, and I paraded with him, intending to make a virtue of his entry 'without a brush having touched him' - but I don't think I had the opportunity to make that point - and he was awarded 3rd prize. And a nice green rosette. Which we still have. Dear Fred. How lovely you were. And Reg took a video of us parading round. Must ask him again for a copy.
51. I suppose there's no merit in repetition here. We loved him. Full stop, We (or anyway I) didn't know how much until we lost him. That's life. Love matters. We haven't stopped loving him. He lives on in our memories. As Stephen Foster's song almost says: We'll never never find a better friend than dear dear (little) Fred. (19.5.11).
52. It was the maintenance of that magic chemical balance that failed in the end. We kept it going for 3 to 4 years after the 2007 crisis but, in the end, it couldn't be done any longer;
53. (31.5.11): Just found your brush, dear little Fred. With just a trace of your fur still on it. Oh little Fred, dear little Fred, why didn't I save a proper sample of your fur? Well, I suppose it was that I never thought about life without you. You were so much part of our lives, I couldn't imagine anything different. You were my way for saying that I loved the animal kingdom. And that was wonderful.
54. Every time I sit down on the kitchen door step to put my boots on, I remember how, every day, little Fred knew that was the signal for his afternoon walk, and would get up from his basket and come over to the door. And many a time I would put my right arm round his neck and 'hold him close', so that he couldn't actually go out through the door - and Fred would enter into all this and seemed to enjoy it, and then jump down onto the 'cobbles' under the archway.
55.(27.6.11): He really was so little - and easy to carry over stiles. Hence we could go anywhere, stiles or not. Hence also, when cattle took offence against me walking him (on his lead) through their field, and started their usual intimidatory tactics (which Fred didn't like at all), I could pick him up under one arm and run with him at them, telling them what they could do with their tactics - and he was quite happy during all this, so long as he was tucked under my arm - which of course he was;
56. (6.8.11): Fred was an enigma. We knew not whence he came, nor that he would bring the joy he did, nor that he would be so missed;
57. 7.10.2011: a) Fred would always get up from his basket in the kitchen when I shook the table-cloth at the kitchen door, and would studiously-sniff and lick-as-necessary that whole area. In the same way, the whole kitchen was a 'crumb-free' zone in Fred's days;
58. 7.1011: Two changes since Fred has gone: a) no more dictated diary - it is now typed on this phone; b) (probably merely coincidentally): my years of bread-making likewise seem to have been my 'Fred years', as they have likewise come to an end (perhaps due to the machine not performing well);
58. Many a time when we needed to take Fred with us, say, in the car, he would be pottering down the garden in his little 'kingdom', and I would find him there, and pick him up. And in his latter, blind. years, not having seen me approach, there would be an instantaneous 'what's this?' reaction, followed by his welcoming relaxation when he 'knew those hands' and just happily joined us in what we were doing;
59. (4.12.11):
Fred was a constant little 'friend' who took us into the joys of walking and sunshine and fresh air and solitude and nature and (via podcasts) into books and music and 'distance learning'. He was always (at least in his younger days) full of enthusiasm for life and thus spread around him the joy of living, which is a great gift. If all this is a delusion, then I am happy to be thus-deluded.
60. (5.12.11):
It's 4.22 pm and a golden sunset had reminded me how I loved to take Fred walking at such a time. He loved his walks of course. And, looking back, I little thought how it would all come to an end, and how I would miss him. So now I look at the sunset and just think of him and say: 'I loved you Fred'. That means something.
61. His memory is a joy. A beacon. A symbol for life itself. (23.12.11)